


Forfiet

by Dribbles



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: 2000sAU, Best Friends, M/M, Pining, soft angst, trapped in a mall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 04:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17135153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dribbles/pseuds/Dribbles
Summary: Kyungsoo always wins and Jongin fails to see how insignificant that all is.





	Forfiet

   
  
   
  
   
  
The rain pours so hard it pierces the skin but he came anyway, holding out an umbrella, the car still running and the door wide open. He doesn’t say anything, just asks Jongin unspoken questions, concern in the slant of his brows. Maybe that’s why Jongin loves him so much.  Kyungsoo knows not to ask why. Knows not to pry why he used his one and only phone call to come pick him up from the corner of a police station crumbling within a landscape of forsaken farmland.  
  
“Where are you?” Was all Kyungsoo said, his voice a crackle in his ear and Jongin had to swallow down bile creeping up his chest. Silence is just one of his many bad habits, tight-lipped as an officer with a missing tooth escorted him outside, whistling as he spoke of a final warning.  
  
A single beam of light falls down on him now with the rain and his limbs have no more strength seeing Kyungsoo combat the wind and pull at his elbow, still in his pyjama shirt mismatched with worn out Levi’s. Jongin’s sneakers squelch and he makes sure they don’t touch the floor of the car.  
  
“Take them off”, Kyungsoo says, “You’ll get sick”.  
  
So Jongin does as told, trying to keep the small bag of pills from slipping out the flap of the sole. He doesn’t quite know where to put his soaked socks that already stink of mildew. The car smells new. He decides to stuff them in his shoes and Kyungsoo clicks his tongue, a pack of tissues in his hand, “I don’t really have towels stocked in here, so these will have to do”.  
  
The highway is completely empty but along the horizon, the city looks alive because it never sleeps, running on amphetamine ambitions. He takes a peek towards Kyungsoo fixed to the road ahead with hands that grip the steering wheel appropriately at ten and two. Nothing comes to mind, or it does but Jongin feels like a kid waiting for their parent to tell them off for playing with matches. There’s condensation in the corner of the window so he draws a little heart, failing looking all bent out of shape so he squeakily smudges it away. The hem of his t-shirt is stained in blood so he tries fiddling with that instead.  
  
It all happened in a flash really. Damn college kid, tweaking off his head. When he refused to pay Jongin full price for a pack of fifty, he was rewarded with arms flinging themselves at him in a rage. He got a few swings in before the cops showed up and took the side the PhD student with the button down and slacks, rather than the guy with unwashed hair and discount sweats.  
  
Jongin will never understand the need to pop pills just to write 10,000 words in a night. He’d rather memorize 10,000 melodies. A song plays on the radio that he likes but he won’t turn the volume up. He remembers the beat in his muscles that slowly morphed into an unbearable pain and abandoning that whole thing seemed like such a good idea at the time. The song he likes fades to another he doesn’t recognize and loses interest—  
  
“I need the bathroom. Do you mind?” Kyungsoo asks turning off the ignition. Jongin didn’t even realize they had stopped along with the rain, parked in the empty lot of a Super-mart. He shakes his head and bites his lip.  
  
“Want me to get you anything?” Kyungsoo asks again.  
  
“I’m not completely broke you know? I just… didn’t have enough for a taxi”. It’s not a complete lie, but his pockets are much lighter after tonight. Cops outside the city are easier to charm with a dashing smile when you know how to speak their language.  
  
“I didn’t—I just meant I could… I don’t know buy you a new pair of kicks? Since tonight hasn’t been good for you or, whatever”.  
  
His toes are dry now, warm from the heat of the engine. His shoes, however.  
  
“I guess…” Jongin says, “but I’ll pay you back”, insisting as he pops the car door open. Bold letters glow bright red above the entrance and Jongin feels Kyungsoo stop him right before the welcome mat. He turns around to a familiar smile, while he tries hiding his own in the shadow of his tilted head. When he looks all the way down to his bare toes, a tight fist dangles right under his nose. He can’t help but whine out just like he did back when they were kids, “You can’t be serious?”  
  
“If I win…” Kyungsoo clears his throat, “I’m allowed to buy you whatever you want,” eyes glistening like the moon. Jongin has to stop himself from staring too long because moons are too far away. He plays along, “This makes no sense Kyungsoo!” He smiles back and it means the world, “Why?” Kyungsoo teases back, “It makes perfect sense to me”.  
  
“I might as well forfeit!”  
  
“That’s completely against the rules”.  
  
“Those rules are from like when we were twelve!”  
  
“And they still hold up now”.  
  
“Fine! And if I win?” Jongin asks, and it's all pleasant now. This back and forth is what he knows. And he knows without a shadow of a doubt, is that he most defiantly will not win. But amusing Kyungsoo is all part of this game they play. They used to play.  
  
“If you win,” Kyungsoo says, “I don’t get to ask you any questions about tonight”.  
  
Jongin’s smile falls just a bit. He knew it would come eventually. That he would have to explain the patched up gash by his eyebrow and the faded marks around his wrists. So with a fist, he prepares himself hoping for a tie. For old times sake. For the person standing right before him. His best friend. The only person he has ever loved. Always will.  
  
In unison, they chant “Rock! Paper! Scissors!”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
  
  
“What about these?” Kyungsoo says, handing Jongin a simple white sneaker, completely unblemished. “This feels more like I’ve won and not you,” he retorts feeling the soft leather in his hands and checking for the size. It should fit.  
  
“I take great joy from seeing you clothed properly Jongin. Now, find a pair of socks too. I’ll meet you back at the checkout, I’ve really gotta go.”  
  
“Okay”, Jongin chuckles to himself as he watches Kyungsoo waddle frantically to the bathroom, face all screwed and desperate. His smile never fades staring at the pairs of socks, the way they fold into each other, the right useless without the left.  
  
He spots a pair of Mickey Mouse ones that look so much like the ones Kyungsoo used to have when he would skate around polished floorboards, sliding onto his butt and Jongin with hands ready to pull him up but it just all turned to a pile of breathless laughter.  
  
He feels the gaze of the sales assistant tap at his shoulder, enamoured and slowly fixing a pile of underwear. “Do you have these is a bigger size?” he asks looking at her name tag, “Yeri?” Her smile is all thick metal braces. It’s only when she realizes she hasn’t spoken yet that she wobbles over syllables trying to remember how to talk, “S-sorry Sir, w-we only have what is on the s-shelf”.  
  
“Thanks, I’ll keep looking”.  
  
Maybe there isn’t any point. They’ll pay, get back in the car and ride back to reality. Where Kyungsoo is pursuing his dream career and Jongin is living with poor life decisions piled into a studio apartment he can walk the span of in two whole steps. Maybe he’ll skip on the socks.

  
  
-

  
  
  
The cashier, with his bright red vest and spiky hair, is completely engrossed in the newest Harry Potter book and Jongin waits by the magazine stand. Kyungsoo still isn’t there by the time he reads over every single boring headline. Rocking back on his heels, he decides to find out what’s taking him so long.    
  
“Kyungsoo?” he calls as he creaks open the bathroom door, “You in here?”  
  
“AH! Jongin! Thank god! My Savior!”  
  
He walks over to the only locked stall and places an ear to the door. “Did you fall in or something?” Hearing Kyungsoo groan.  
  
“No! There is literally zero, I repeat zero toilet paper in here”.  
  
“Did you check the other stall?”  
  
“Of course I checked the other stall! This facility is an abomination! I will be writing a very angry letter, don’t you worry”. Jongin can’t keep in the laughter, “--And I’m certainly not leaving here until I’ve cleaned myself,” the last few syllables seething through clenched teeth.  
  
“Oh my god! Kyungsoo, here” Jongin pulls out the packet of tissues to pass them through the gap under the door. Kyungsoo’s tugs them away.  
  
“Thanks, Jongin,” and even though it's so soft, his voice resonates through Jongin’s whole being, like the thunderous crash of waves.  
  
Kyungsoo washes his hands like a surgeon, every finger and up past the wrist gets covered in soap. Those hands that he would secretly love to hold when they wrestled on the worn out carpet on his bedroom floor, watching favourite episodes of Cowboy Bebop. They’ve changed in time, veins show and there is a sharp angle to his thumb.  
  
“You get what you needed?” the suds spiral down the drain.  
  
“Yeah I did thanks,” Jongin replies, emphasizing the gratitude in the swell of his eyes.  
  
It's subtle but Jongin thinks he hears a frustrated sigh. Maybe because Kyungsoo has to use the flannel of his shirt to dry his hands but it might have more to do with the way he stares at his reflection, glimpses of sadness, shadows drawn into the creases.  
  
And then it's gone. “You’d do the same, right?” Kyungsoo says.  
  
“Right”.  


  
-  
  
  
  
  
  
“There was a guy here before,” Jongin says, the register empty now.  
  
Kyungsoo searches the store for any sign of life “maybe he just went to get something from the back?” He says unfolding his wallet, the plastic sleeve holding a memory of Jongin’s birthday and the adventures they had in the back alleys of arcades and malfunctioning photo booths. Jongin had lost every game of Street Fighter that day.  
  
In the search for spare change, everything goes dark. Literally. The lights, they’re off.  
  
“Um, that shouldn’t happen right?” Kyungsoo says a coin falls to the wayside, forgotten.  
  
Jongin’s heart sprints with Kyungsoo who lunges for main entrance and he doesn’t even have to look because there is no automatic slide of glass and there is no blast of cold wind that bends a line of trees like a taunt, a passive-aggressive goodbye along the perimeter of the car park. Kyungsoo’s palms leave smudges, the door ratting like thunderous panic. “Hey! Wait!” He yells from the top of his lungs, “Come back”. Its contagious and Jongin watches on in dismay, a security guard casually moseying towards his jeep, oblivious to the bad dream he has become.  
  
“Help!”  
  
The car door shuts.  
  
“Wait! Unlock the door first”.  
  
The engine hums.  
  
“No, don’t go”.  
  
And then their only hope drives away along the stretch of highway like it would every night. The rain returns.  
  
“Fuck.” Kyungsoo kicks at anything, “I have work tomorrow morning”.  
  
“It’s okay”, Jongin is panting, scared because he doesn’t believe his own words, “we can just call the police or something?”  
  
Kyungsoo starts nodding his head manically and it's painful when Jongin feels responsible.  
  
“Good Idea— wait no I left my cell in the car. Do you—?”  
  
“Shit... I don’t have a mobile Kyungsoo”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“It broke a while ago and I just—”  
  
“Its fine, there should be a phone around here somewhere”.  
  
Jongin searches for anything, praying he can find the key for their escape.  
  
Amongst stray rubber bands, crumpled up post-its and chewed up pens Jongin reaches for a phone on the register, the keyboard beside, worn and numbers faded. He calls out Kyungsoo’s name with the claim he has found the answer to their predicament.  
  
“It’s no use, it’s an intercom,” Kyungsoo explains and with deadpan precision takes the receiver to his mouth, presses a green button lit up and blinking and announces through the sound system, “clean up on aisle 4. clean up on aisle 4”, sarcasm filtered through the metallic hiss of old speakers.  
  
“Sorry I thought it was a landline”.  
  
Kyungsoo groans against the surface of the scanner bed, hands pulling at his hair, “I have a presentation to make tomorrow. My boss will literally kill me with one of those metal, retractable pointers and make the rest of the department watch. He fucking hates me as is”.  
  
“Hey...” Jongin says, slow with thoughtfulness. Then light flashes, a bright bulb in the darkness. He shakes Kyungsoo with the excitement of a little kid, “payphone!” Smiles make the world not seem so dismal.  
  
   
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
  
  
“Yes officer—-yes-no—we have no way— yes I understand but surely, of course, yes— But can’t someone— Fine, thank you officer. Good night”.  
  
“What does that mean Kyungsoo? Are they going to come?”  
  
“Well according to Mr Police Man in charge of everything, no. Apparently, the weather is even worse than we thought. A truck slid sideways and caused a pile-up. Two dudes locked up in a store isn’t even worth their time and resources. They just said we have to wait till someone lets us out”.  
  
“Which means...”  
  
“It means we are setting up camp here tonight”.  
  
“I’m so, so sorry Kyungsoo”.  
  
“It’s not your fault”.  
  
“If I didn’t…”  
  
“Jongin. I told you. I’m glad you called me. It’s been a while since you have...” he says sliding down the wall to rest the throb in his head against his knees, “that to do with a broken phone?”  
  
“Yeah…”  
  
Sometimes it’s hard to play this hide and seek, along isles of bed sheets and books. He is found somehow by Kyungsoo’s keen eye, pulled from his hiding place, another loss against his name. “I’m sorry, I just been busy with work”, he says pulling himself back, trying to distract himself from the little orange plastic bottles that line the shelves of his kitchen cabinets with notice board paraphernalia: Yoga classes at the local town hall are free if you bring a friend.  
  
“So much has happened Jongin, I’ve missed having you to talk to, you know?”  
  
“I’m really sorry” and it's all he can really think to say because the truth is a murky concoction and it's hard to make out what feelings match which word when everything is congealed together.  
  
“Don’t look so glum,” Kyungsoo says.  
  
“That’s just my face,” but he says it like a joke.  
  
“Wanna bet?” Kyungsoo has that smirk on his face again and Jongin senses the beginning of another game. Before it even begins, he intercepts — “I’m hungry”.

  
  
-  


  
  
There is something so familiar about empty foil packets and oily fingers, the taste of salt biting the edges of their tongues. Something comforting about the Pokemon beanbags, Kyungsoo with first dibs on Charmander. He throws a tennis ball into the air, and with a whine nearing the hight of his voice tries to urge Jongin to play catch with promises that there will be no wager this time.  
  
“You’ll still give me shit for sucking”, Jongin says with nothing but playful affection. Kyungsoo isn't amused though as he fights his way up and searches for something near tiled televisions and electronic assemblage.  
  
“We have to play the new PlayStation 2!” he cries head popping up from behind an isle of Barbie dolls. “Please play with me?” Kyungsoo struggles to grab at Jongin’s arms to pull him back up to his feet and drag him along, hands that easily influence the softness of his heart. They steer Jongin everywhere that he should when he isn’t blinded by self-pity.  
  
With his blindfold on knotted uptight, Kyungsoo leads him to study sessions in quiet libraries instead of behind dumpsters smoking cigarettes with nefarious assortments of other dropkicks. Without looking he could never resist the smell of wrapped candy and sweetbreads, the taste of a passing grade. Jongin would have been completely lost without him traversing through adolescent obstacles, senses blocked, those eyes like beacons, a torch in the dark. Stupid brain.  
  
  
“How good are the graphics? I don’t even know if it could get any better than this” Kyungsoo says, completely transfixed to the screen, a portal to a world of three-dimensional wonder, and its as if he wants to jump in, desperation in the way he leans forward, too close. Flickering images of blood bursting, skulls popping a simulation of grotesque pain and then Kyungsoo is chanting “Awooga” like the win is really his, posturing himself like the little man in the TV with six bulbous arms and iron cast fists, a mirrored reflection of triumph. And Jongin somehow gets it. The spike of happiness in the thrill of a win however fleeting.  
  
So he decides in an unprecedented display of confidence to align his forefinger and thumb and transports himself into the driver's seat, tries with concentrated effort to coordinate the exact motion of each hand to see himself pass the finish-line, first place next to his name.    
  
He calculates how he should go about his plan of attack. He picks a Ferrari, the red, brash against the brightest blue sky and dithered clouds. It has tonnes of horsepower and for some reason the sound of that makes it seem very important. Kyungsoo bumps his shoulder, the slant of his brow indicating that something is different, that Jongin is actually taking one of their games seriously. If only to feel a fraction of what Kyungsoo is.  
  
“So Kyungsoo, how’s work?” He asks with psychological warfare on the brain. The green light glares at him and his thumb already aches.  
  
“Uh, same old really. I don’t know how much more excited I can get about selling cereal boxes” - Nothing too invasive yet as to knock Kyungsoo’s determination of the winding course, “You still work at the cafe?” He asks Jongin.  
  
“Nah I quit that a while back— you looking for other work?”  
  
“Yeah, about that. Um, I may have applied for something. And I may have got the job”, his voice a mumble, the joints in his hands far more precise in their motivations.  
  
“Kyungsoo that’s great. What is it?”  
  
“It’s a video game company actually and they really like my sketches” and Jongin is so perplexed now at why Kyungsoo is rattling off on gigantic news as if it were the banality of a grocery list. It makes his own interest in hard left turns fade away. “What the fuck Kyungsoo that’s amazing. This is what you’ve always wanted” he says, trying to focus back on his current second placing, the bumper of his car hitting the back of Kyungsoo’s. One more lap left and he’ll finally defeat him.  
  
“Yeah no, it is really great. If I take it that is”.  
  
“But you always chase your dreams”, and it's such a tight gap now to the finish line that Jongin actually starts to sweat when he takes over and battles for first place.  
  
“It’s in Japan”.  His grip falters, and his joystick locks in place, the artificial shine of Kyungsoo’s Lamborghini glitters in a final victory lap. Winning is overrated anyway.

  
  
-

  
  
There is always that scene in a movie. That one where life gets so incredibly overwhelming, the only way to deal is to stare at yourself in the mirror, cold water dripping from your face. That’s total bullshit. The cold does nothing for Jongin. Does nothing to wash away anything gross and putrid clogging up his airways, the fear polluting him from the inside out. He had to walk away but he wished he could run, chuck something large and heavy and shatter the glass doors and make his escape.  
  
But Kyungsoo is never far behind, even when he is standing by the open door of the bathroom. “Hey, you good?”, barely a whisper.  
  
He isn’t okay. “I’m fine. I think all the food made me ill. Haven’t eaten like that in a while”, even though his diet consists of tepid pot noodles and diet Pepsi. But it isn’t a lie that this sick feeling lingers in his gut the more he realizes Kyungsoo might not be there, offering bottled water and hand on his shoulder. Its so warm and Jongin hopes it stays there because he understands.  
  
“Yeah, I guess adolescence is more forgiving of late night snacks. We must be getting old”.  
  
A broken laugh with sharp edges scratches Jongin’s throat. He swallows as much water as he can to soften the pain and Kyungsoo still looks like he is expecting Jongin to bring up this Japanese dream and why that alone isn’t enough to fly there himself right now, powered by wings, engineered with passion and that unshakable purpose. Jongin would look on with wonder at the boy he loves, soaring high above the clouds if it meant it made him truly happy.  
  
But Jongin doesn’t say anything because unlike Kyungsoo, he isn’t fearless. His wings are a work in progress forgotten in dark basements and rusted from the damp. Corrosion of muscles making it hard to move, take a step forward or release his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.  
  
“Here”. Kyungsoo with a near empty pack of tissues pulls one out and starts to dry his forehead still wet. But he takes the tissue from warm and careful hands to finishes the job. He shouldn’t rely on Kyungsoo anymore.  
  
   
  
  
  
-  
  
   
  
  
  
“I spy with my little eye something that is, blue”.  
  
There’s a dog kennel over there, or could it be a dollhouse? The late hour blurs Jongin’s vision, eyelids fluttering to keep focus.  
  
“Is it that thing over there”, he points, wrist hanging loose, the lack of effort making Kyungsoo scoff. He might be pointing at something that resembles a bicycle with training wheels.  
  
“Nope. You got two guesses left”.  
  
It’s so dark now everything looks blue. Deep, dark shadows of navy creating monsters in the night he thought he had left under his bed. The depth of indigo like space except there are no stars only wormholes, patches of near blackness that invite Jongin in. Then the periwinkle glow of the moon catches his eye, a beautiful reminder of glass windows without an opening—  
  
“Jongin?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Do you want a clue?”  
  
Kyungsoo is sitting up, all attention invested in the progress of the game. Five rounds in and he has successfully guessed each and every one of Jongin’s spied objects all easily spotted from a few feet away. Strategy was never his strong point. Sometimes it’s hard to know what exactly is. And when Kyungsoo shakes his shoulders nagging him to stay awake, the hands on his chest remind him that he can’t even say he can love properly, the desire to hold him back, packed up tight with the rest of his insecurities, a chain and ball attached and weighted down at the bottom of the deepest sea.  
  
“I give up Kyungsoo”.  
  
“It’s against the rules!” The whining now a display of pure petulance that he hasn’t seen since high school, demanding that Jongin stay up until dawn on that last Saturday morning battling birds for the first worm. He never could keep up their conversations about plans after graduation, too tired of their implications and Kyungsoo gave him shit for it, a black marker moustache scrawled under his nose in the mirror and he would always wonder how close Kyungsoo got to his lips.  
  
“I don’t know”.  
  
“It’s so easy though”.  
  
“Kyungsoo, just, can we leave it?” Exasperated, rubbing his eyes, putting on that blindfold again so he won’t have to see the disappointment he imagines is there.  
  
“Fine, we’ll leave it then”.  
  
When his eyes open back up, all he sees is Kyungsoo’s back, hardened and still. It’s so uncomfortable as he tries to twist his body in-between display cushions, tags still attached and unboxed inflatable pool lounges the sounds of squeaky plastic rupturing the dead silence. Its suffocating and now Jongin’s chest can’t bear the weight of its corpse. He can’t sleep.  
  
“Kyungsoo?”  
  
“It’s fine I said if you just wanna sleep”.  
  
“I’m no good anyway. You win every time”.  
  
With a single sigh, Kyungsoo turns to face the ceiling, so close Jongin can hint the tension, a spark of actual fire spitting from a flutter of eyelash right before a match ignites.  
  
“That’s not the point”.  
  
“Winning?”  
  
“Why can’t we just play for fun. Like we used to”.  
  
“Why play when you can’t win though?”  
  
The words do something to Kyungsoo, pulling himself up again, staring down like he is this giant hovering above him, words raining down like stones. “Like when you gave up dance?” It’s an accusation and Jongin wants to turn away and hide under layers of self-pity.  
  
“Who told you? My mum?”  
  
“Well, when my friend stops answering my calls”.  
  
“I’m sorry okay”, not registering the way his throat tenses, dried out panting for oxygen that escaped down the void of those black holes towards another universe, one where this whole conversation never took place.  
  
“No Jongin it’s not okay—“  
  
“I would have told you”  
  
“It’s not about telling me Jongin. You gave up something you fucking loved! Why? What legitimate reason do you have? You’re talented”.  
  
“Well not according to my teacher!”  
  
“Then you keep trying”.  
  
“Easy for you to say. You are good at literally everything”.  
  
“I am not”.  
  
“Are too”.  
  
“Are not”.  
  
“Are too! and that bullshit about turning down Japan?”  
  
“I’m not going Jongin”.  
  
“That’s stupid”.  
  
“You’re stupid”.  
  
“And you are stupider times infinity plus one!”  
  
Kyungsoo’s laughter is a song. His favourite, singing along with each hiccup. Their giggles ring out in a harmony, going breathless. And suddenly Jongin wants to cry because this childish contest feels like a frolic through youthful memories, where tall grass grew in abandoned fields behind back fences, tree roots become overgrown hideouts, and the summer wind would carry with them calls for dinner. With hands covered in soil, they would hold hands when crossing streams and pick the prettiest pebbles, skipping them across the surface of the water and losing count when one would splash the other, goloshes paired and perched on the flat of smooth stone, drying themselves with fallen leaves in the sun.  
  
When the cry of the city and its demands for rent and responsibility marketed as the allure of adulthood was still the faintest haze, barely visible along the horizon because the sky looked so big and bright to the both of them back then. Jongin would leap across puddles thinking he was Nureyev and Kyungsoo would follow and trip, grazes along his knees. He would hog the keyboard of his first PC and Jongin would creep over his shoulder and smash the alphabet to ruin a new high score. Because it didn’t matter back then. A win or a loss was as banal as a grocery list.  
  
“You remember when we met?” Kyungsoo asks, nostalgia a soft smile.  
  
“Kind of? It was at school”.  
  
“Yeah. We were all playing tag or some shit and this kid like two times my size shoved me to the ground”.  
  
“I remember him. He brought one of his dad’s porno mags to class. I remember when he got in trouble his dad actually looked like a hernia”.  
  
“That’s right— Anyways, I started to cry ‘cause it hurt like hell and I saw this kid with long wild hair race up to us. I thought you were going to beat him up you looked so angry. But you didn’t. You just tapped him on the shoulder, had to stretch your neck to look up at him and said, don’t do that. It’s not nice. Say sorry.”  
  
“I said that?”  
  
“You were totally fearless. Then you helped me to the nurse and wouldn’t leave, nagging her to help put a band-aid on me”.  
  
“I remember. I did it wrong and you kicked me”.  
  
“Cause you ripped it off without telling”.  
  
“It had little basketballs on it. The band-aid i mean. I wanted to pick one you liked”.  
  
“You’d do anything for me Jongin, and I’d do the same for you”.  
  
“You haven’t let me win though…” it’s the last thing he says. He is tired now, hearing Kyungsoo’s breath against his ear turn to a giggle. A song fading out.

  
  
  
  
-  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Morning comes in the form of a burly security guard nudging them awake. It takes a while to get used to waking up, missing Kyungsoo’s hand by his waist and their ankles hooked together. He could have sworn it was just a dream but his foot stings from pins and needles limping to the checkout.  
  
They must look like they’ve been caught in a windstorm, hair a mess and the girl behind the counter with glittered eyes and butterfly clips tries not to laugh at the pile of stuff they unloaded including those empty chip packets, while Kyungsoo rattles on about stocks of toilet paper and Tekken 3. He ended up buying the newest console and the newest games and Jongin finally got to own his brand new trainers, a perfect fit.  
  
The air outside is wet from the rain, and Jongin avoids puddles on his way back to the car, thoughts like residual rainclouds wondering whether going back to the city means leaving behind late-night conversations and juvenile games left unfinished.  
  
A song plays on the radio, one he recognizes. He turns it up because he likes this melody and the way her voice oozes deep, his fingers playing invisible piano keys as he closes his eyes to focus on the rhythm, how close it falls within the pace of his own pulse. He can hear Kyungsoo hum along beside him and they do just that, listen together until the sun is eclipsed by tall buildings, the noise of people, the rush of their lives drowning out the last strum of electronic fuzz.  
  
Kyungsoo parks in a side street adjacent to Jongin’s apartment, almost forgetting that he lived there all alone and this all started because he needed Kyungsoo to rescue him from his own stupidity.  
  
“You know Jongin, you don’t have to tell me why, but at least tell me you are okay?” But with Kyungsoo looking at him with undeniable care, his rotting floorboards, wood warping under crushed dreams, feet aching from pointed toes that don’t look the right type of graceful, everything does seem okay. As long as Kyungsoo gets to fly Jongin doesn’t mind watching in the first row of the stalls. He is okay with that. He is okay with it all.  
  
“How about we play one more game?” He asks with a steady breath and smile that reflects the brightness of the sun.  
  
“I think we’ve had our fair share Jongin”.  
  
“The last one. Ever. But I get to pick”.  
  
Kyungsoo agrees with a curious nod and Jongin is already talking before his consciousness can catch up to him, running and screaming that this is a bad idea. “If I win,  you take the job in Japan”.  
  
“The stakes are high then?”, Kyungsoo concludes and turns the engine off nothing but distant traffic whispering motion, wheels moving forward towards dreams resting in far off places.  
  
In the glove box, Jongin finds a single coin so he can perform a single flip, chance the only weapon he has against Kyungsoo, hoping it’s on his side. “Tails” Jongin claims as the coin tosses over and over like the handles of a clock spinning towards the future, a time jump where Kyungsoo draws for a living because his university notes were filled with fantastical doodles and Jongin gets postcards of Mount Fuji to pin above his unmade bed. The coin is hot against his palm, watching Kyungsoo as they wait for the reveal. And Jongin gasps, in total shock because he won. He actually won. And winning suddenly feel overrated.  
  
“I forfeit”, Kyungsoo shouts as Jongin fumbles for the handle trying to leave as quickly as he can so Kyungsoo can accelerate his way towards a better life.  
  
“You can’t”, Jongin says stopping because he forgot to unbuckle his seat belt, “ It's against the rules remember”, the desire to escape growing but the energy to lift himself out and walk away waning. Why does his mind have to swing back and forth like a pendulum, like that? Maybe that’s why he can’t move. Because he is stuck between what has been and what is yet to come.  
  
“There are no rules though. We are adults now we can do whatever we want. And I forfeit!” Kyungsoo holds him by the arm, with the tightness of someone desperately holding on too, “This isn’t fair Jongin. We can’t make wagers about life decisions just like that. They require thought and consideration”.  
  
“What is there to consider though?” Jongin asks completely lost now because Kyungsoo is seething, hiding frustration behind curled fingers digging into eye sockets, a sound contorted and strained rises from the depths of his chest. Jongin takes a closer look and then realizes Kyungsoo is sobbing, and when he speaks his lip wobbles so violently that Jongin wishes he could keep them steady with a kiss—  
  
“You. Jongin I have to consider you! I can’t just leave you behind”.  
  
“Of course you can,” he says but its a whisper now and the more Kyungsoo cries the more this flimsy mechanism of self-defence breaks down, coils and bolts popping from their place. “I’m not worth the trouble Kyungsoo”.  
  
“You are so important to me. Why can’t you see that?”  
  
Jongin remembers that blindfold and how tight it feels around his eyes, forcing them closed. The knot is right behind his head, burrowing itself under his skull, Kyungsoo’s hands search for it, fingers grabbing at it in his hair. All he can do is feel himself be pulled in, Kyungsoo still unravelling years worth of fabric looped around his mind. Hands that hold him up by the cheeks and a nose wet and sniffling against his ear. “See that I love you too”, lips say pressed to his pulse, “look at me”.  
  
His eyes were sealed shut until that request came as a thumb caressing a tear just about to fall from the force of it. They open to see Kyungsoo, all red in the face and sincere. Eyes wide like the sky, possibilities feeling endless now.  
  
“I’ve always looked at you”, Jongin confesses the strength of his tongue battling bad habits, “-always looked up to you”.  
  
“Don’t put me so far up the pedestal, first place is lonely you know. I want to be here right next to you okay?”. Kyungsoo’s lip trembles again, this time Jongin feels the bravery seen in him, that little kid who ran up and conquered a bully, ignorant of the consequences. He kisses Kyungsoo for the first time in his whole life and it's terrifyingly beautiful.  
  
“Okay”.  
  
When Kyungsoo kisses him back, wind blows through the tallest grass. His heart leaps, and maybe even flies.  
  
   
  
   
  
   
  
 

**Author's Note:**

> (Loosely inspired by an ep. of Dawson’s Creek)


End file.
